


Thanks, I'm good (better with you)

by Lacerta



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (accidentally), 5 times Clint doesn't ask for help and 1 time he does, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, BAMF Clint Barton, Deaf Clint Barton, Demon Bucky Barnes, Getting Together, Stubborn Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta/pseuds/Lacerta
Summary: This time the stranger is fully in Clint's view when he appears."Do you want my help?""Right," Clint mumbles bitterly, "and if I agreed, what would you ask in return?""Your soul," the man replies with an impressive deadpan, and Clint huffs an honest laugh."Yeah, man, I don't think my soul is worth that much," he says with a self-depreciating chuckle. "Guess I'll have to manage on my own."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 30
Kudos: 188





	Thanks, I'm good (better with you)

**Author's Note:**

> The Score's new album struck me with inspiration (the whole album has _very_ strong Clint vibes), and yet again I was distracted from all the other WIPs to write a completely different story. I hope you enjoy what came out of it! 
> 
> Please sends some good thoughts to veryrachael who takes my words and makes them all shiny~ <3
> 
> Now with art by [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/), a wonderful, wonderful person and a great friend!

* * *

* * *

* 1 *

It's not the first time he’s lost a fight in this neighborhood. It's not even the first time Clint's landed in a dumpster in this neighborhood. It’s as gross as ever, but he’s too exhausted to do anything about it just now. He stares up and waits for the numbness to pass.

"I can help you," says a husky voice from beside the dumpster.

The sound surprises Clint; he was sure his hearing aids had got busted near the end of the fight. He tears his eyes away from the fire escape above him to look to the side, and before he can even focus his eyes on the dark shadow of the stranger he replies automatically, "No, thanks."

He blinks once, and when he looks again, there's no one there.

He heaves himself out of the trash, thankful for the shred of luck that meant he didn't fall into anything too disgusting. The stranger is still nowhere to be found.

Clint shrugs. He checks his aids; they're busted just like he suspected. He shrugs again, adds apparent concussion to the lengthy catalogue of his current injuries, and limps out of the alley. No one will carry his ass home if he won't.

  


* 2 *

"Do you want my help?"

This time the stranger is fully in Clint's view when he appears. Clint might be currently bleeding to death on the pavement not a hundred feet from his building, but he always has an eye for detail. The man is dressed in a black tactical suit, not even pretending not to have a large number of weapons on his person, and he's wearing a mask that leaves only his eyes visible. When Clint looks up and their eyes meet, he finds it impossible to look away, but he can see long, tangled hair around that face. He vaguely notices something off about the man's left arm, but can't pinpoint what it is exactly.

He leaves that mystery for later, and focuses on forming words instead.

"Right," he mumbles bitterly, "and if I agreed, what would you ask in return?"

"Your soul," the man replies with an impressive deadpan, and Clint huffs an honest laugh.

"Yeah, man, I don't think my soul is worth that much," he says with a self-depreciating chuckle. "Guess I'll have to manage on my own."

The stranger tilts his head, giving him an intense, calculating look that Clint can't escape. Then, with a nod so subtle Clint almost misses it, he turns on his heel and...

And disappears. Huh. A hallucination? A mutant with teleportation abilities? Or had Clint closed his eyes for much longer than the intended blink? He can’t tell.

He presses on his wound a bit harder and ignores how lightheaded he feels, hoping against all odds that one of the neighbors decides to take a walk in this awful weather and finds him before it's too late.

  


* 3 *

Clint is an excellent climber; his childhood in the circus made sure of that. He can scale walls with barely any purchase, defying ideas of what "climbable" means, and so right now his only problem is that he's counting on the mob not thinking of looking up at the almost smooth wall of the alley.

It's the best hiding spot he could find at such short notice. It isn't ideal, but it's better than facing the goons he's still not fit enough to fight after their last encounter. Granted, the doctors wouldn't advise this kind of physical activity either, but Clint's good at it; he could hang from the brick windowsill for hours if needed, as long as his feet don't slip from the narrow shelf of the top of the window frame below him. He even starts feeling comfortable in this position after a few minutes. He can do it. The mafia will soon retreat for the night.

Except it starts to rain. Fuck.

What are the chances he survives the inevitable fall from this height?

"Say the word and I'll help you."

He only barely avoids loosening his grip on the brick in shock, coming close to slipping and testing his hypothesis of "most likely deadly" fall.

He recognises the voice right away despite only having heard it twice before. The familiar stranger is leaning out of the window above, his face maybe a dozen inches from Clint's own. How did he miss a window opening right in front of him? Was he that distracted by the mobsters?

"Jesus!" he whisper-shouts. "Why don't you yell even louder! I'm trying to hide here, man!"

Up close, the man doesn't look as intimidating. Of course the mask still gives him a rather serious look, but now Clint can see the very human expression in his eyes.

"They can't hear me," the stranger says simply, and he looks unreasonably certain of it.

"Even so," Clint doesn't let go, "what are you, a stalker or something? The way you keep showing up, it's creepy!"

"I come whenever you might want my help."

The man's calm manner as he gives his explanation grates on Clint's nerves. "Back away," he grunts and pulls himself up on the increasingly slippery windowsill. The stranger straightens up in surprise and it takes him a long moment to understand what Clint is planning. He finally takes a step back right as Clint tumbles through the window.

Clint intends to tear into the other man as soon as he's safe from the mob's bullets, but when he springs up on his feet, he realises how close they are, standing maybe a foot apart, and he startles.

"Uhm," he grunts out. Should he be thankful for the save? The open window likely saved him from the fall. But he wants to shout at this guy, not thank him!

Before he can make up his mind on what to say, the stalker-slash-guardian-angel beats him to it.

"You're an odd one, Clint Barton."

It should surprise Clint that the stranger knows his name, but the words don't have time to fully register, because the man sidesteps him and with no hesitation jumps out of the building.

He scrambles to the window, panicked, but there's no thump below. There's no body on the ground, either. The stranger is gone without a trace. Again.

  


* 4 *

"You won't make it. They have a man with a rifle up there, hiding behind the exit on the roof."

Clint startles, but doesn't ask how the man got here, just send him a contemplating look.

"You sure?"

The stranger nods. "If you as much as take a step from here, you're dead."

"Right behind the exit?"

The man looks confused but confirms with a grunt. That's all Clint needs. He has an arrow nocked already; he relaxes his shoulders and takes a deep breath. With his eyes closed he recreates the location from memory. An alley, a container to the left, two a bit further to the right, then the building and on the roof– the walls of the roof exit.

He opens his eyes, raises his bow and draws.

"That's an impossible shot." The stranger's voice is full of disbelief. A lesser man might hesitate at these words, but Clint thrives on proving others wrong. He releases his arrow.

A familiar whoosh, a sharp scream as the arrow finds its target and a distant thud of a falling body later, Clint turns to the masked stranger with a cheeky grin.

"Thanks, man, I think I'm good now."

Between one blink of his eyes and the other, the man disappears as if he's never been there at all.

Clint's smile turns more genuine for a brief moment before he remembers the fight waiting for him around the corner. He reaches for another arrow.

  


* 5 *

Pissing off the mob isn’t exactly advisable, but Clint can’t _help_ himself when they make it so easy! His mouth runs faster than his brain can filter, and he only realises the guy he insulted is the boss when he orders his men to fire.

Luckily, Clint is fast and can outrun the goons.

Unluckily, they have cars.

If he can’t outpace them, he needs to outsmart them, right? He doesn’t take the turns into the narrow alleys; they’re going to look for him there. Actually, with the manpower they have, they’ll probably look for him _everywhere_. Except, maybe, in plain sight.

It’s a stupid idea, but he doesn’t have a better one, so he heads for the main street. But what next? He jumps over someone’s fence and presses his back to the brick. He’s still a sitting duck here. Fuck. If he dies today, Nat will laugh at his grave and shed no tears, and he’ll deserve it. Why didn’t he keep his mouth shut?

“How about now; need any help?”

The familiar stranger appears out of thin air right in front of him, and Clint realises in an instant how doomed he must be. No matter how incompetent, the goons will see a man so noticeably out of place in someone else’s frontyard. They’ll find him and shoot him. This time fatally. So he does the only sensible thing.

His instincts are screaming at him to hurry, but he knows better than to rush this more than is absolutely necessary. Looking the stranger in the eye, he reaches for his mask. The man leans away, startled, but doesn’t step back. Clint takes it for a good sign.

The mask looks metallic, but when Clint touches it it’s softer than he expected. His fingers tremble – with adrenaline, sure, but also in response to the eerie shiver on his fingertips, almost as if the fabric materialises at his touch. He tries not to think about it too deeply now, and pulls the mask down.

The stranger lets him. It’s obvious in his eyes that he’s confused, but he’s not angry, and he doesn’t protest. With that unspoken permission Clint lets himself look properly at the man’s face. He’s damn gorgeous, that’s what he is. Clint’s eyes follow his sharp jawline, then rise to fall on the plump lips. The baffled frown that wrinkles his nose is almost endearing.

For a brief second Clint wonders what the stranger sees on his own face. There must be fear – he’s running for his life, after all – but the attraction he feels surely dilates his pupils even more than that fear. Someone with such sharp edges as this man must notice such details.

Clint can see the exact moment when the man fully registers what he sees, because his eyes widen almost comically and his mouth falls open. Normally Clint would take his time to make sure the surprise isn’t a sign of lack of consent, but he can see a car turning with a screech into the street they’re on, and he moves his hand to the back of the other man’s head and pulls him in for a kiss.

For a second Clint thinks all that his last-minute decision has changed is that now he’ll die with a black eye, but then the man kisses him _back_.

Clint can’t escape the delighted hum when the lips against his start moving. It’s not a perfect kiss; it’s not the best kiss of his life either, but it’s goddamn _hot_. The man steps close, growls, and takes control of their kiss. He cups Clint’s face with both his hands, and it’s anything but gentle. His left hand is burning cold on Clint’s cheek. Their bodies are pressed against each other now and Clint moans appreciatively at the contact. He has one hand still tangled in the man’s long hair, and he takes a gamble, reaching to put his other on the stranger’s firm ass. He gets a growl in response, but it’s not an angry one, so Clint grins into the kiss and squeezes.

He needs to breathe too soon, and he whines when they part. The stranger looks at Clint with such dark want that Clint has to swallow down another needy sound. His thoughts run wild. He doesn’t know how to react now, so as always when his brain lags behind, his mouth leads the way in the least expected direction.

“A friend taught me that,” he says. The stranger’s eyebrows rise high, and his beautiful lips curl up in a smile. Oh. Right. That didn’t sound quite like it did in his head. “I mean, not the kissing part! The stealth of kissing part! Wait, no, I mean–!” Clint stops and sighs. ”You know what, doesn’t matter, and I’ve made enough of a fool of myself as it is. I’m really sorry for jumping you.”

The want is back in the man’s eyes when he replies. “It wasn’t unwelcome.”

“Yeah?” Clint breathes the question, but the answer is evident. He clears his throat. “Do I get a name, then?”

“What?”

“You know, your name?” Clint presses cautiously. “Something to call you if we ever meet again?”

The man stiffens and moves away. Clint unwittingly pushes up from the wall to follow him, but stops at the suddenly distant look on the stranger’s face. The man opens his mouth as if to say something, but then looks at Clint and his eyes soften. He swallows and tries again. “You can call me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Clint repeats. “I like it.” The name rolls easily off his tongue, but something in the way he says it must spook the other man, because he gulps, takes a step back, and just like that – he’s gone.

Clint leans back against the brick wall. The mob’s car is already gone; a kissing couple rarely attracts attention. He should move fast now, escape the chase, but he can’t bring himself to move just now. He grazes his lips, his mind blank, and stares at the space where Bucky was mere seconds ago.

Huh.

  
  


* 1 *

Clint's not an idiot. He sees patterns.

There's an Avengers-level threat: a group of enhanced humans is rampaging New Jersey, so of course they’re called in. But with Stark and Banner all the way across the ocean at a science conference, and Thor even further, in Asgard, they're quickly overwhelmed. Backed up by years of experience in the field and trustworthy instincts, Clint knows that the villains chose their timing purposefully, to strike when the Avengers are at their weakest.

He also knows he's dying.

One of the enhanced teenagers (they look so young, gods, but Clint was younger when he ran away) got a lucky shot at Clint's back. The exact extent of his powers is unknown, but their best bet is that he creates focused sonic fields, or that's what Stark said over the comms. But what can he know, flying over the Pacific at top speed of his armor but still thousands of miles away from the fight?

The details of the mutation don't really matter. The kid shoots invisible projectiles, that's what matters, and Clint wasn't fast enough to both cover Nat and avoid the sonic bullet.

So, he's dying. He’s familiar with the pain of a pierced lung, but this is worse. And, what's much worse, the injury is widespread enough that it’s incapacitated his right arm. He can’t draw his bow, and even if he had a weapon easier to wield, this time the pain is just _too much_ to ignore, no matter how high his tolerance might be. He falls back onto the roof with a grunt.

There’s a pattern, though. Every time in the recent months that he was toeing the line between life and death, he got a visitor. He refused his offers so far – he has issues with asking for help, sue him – but it’s not just his own life on the line now. He thinks of Natasha, keeping up with the enhanced teenagers with her supreme skill and whatever the Red Room injected her with, and of Steve, the unyielding powerhouse that he is, both of them giving their best in the fight. He wonders how long they can carry on without a set of eyes above.

He lets out a scream, because he can’t hold it back any longer; he hears worried calls through the comms and ignores them. He takes as deep a breath as he can and calls out.

“Yes! Yes, I accept your help!”

The stranger – Bucky – shows up in an instant, crouched over Clint, almost as if he was lurking in wait for this moment. Despite how predatory it seems, Clint’s relieved.

“You want my help?” Bucky asks, and he sounds surprised. And Clint gets it, really, he’s been a stubborn bastard so far, but he doesn’t have the time for the man’s confusion, not now.

“I need you to save my friends,” he manages.

“That’s… that isn’t how these deals are supposed to work. I can help _you_ , but....” Bucky leans away, makes a move like he’s going to stand up, but Clint won’t have it. He _needs_ the stranger to save Nat. He can hear her voice in his ear, but he doesn’t pay attention to the words she’s huffing out between punches. This is more important now.

He pushes himself up with his last ounce of his strength and grasps at Bucky’s jacket, disregarding the unnatural feeling of vagueness when he touches the material. When he falls back to the ground, he pulls the stranger down with him.

The man lets him. It’s obvious that he’s skilled enough to resist Clint’s weak manhandling if he wanted to, but he compliantly falls forward and braces himself on the roof beside Clint’s head.

“I don’t care what these stupid deals are supposed to be,” Clint rushes his words. The clock is ticking; precious seconds passing by without anyone watching Nat and Steve’s backs. “You take anything you want: my soul, blood, firstborn child, anything. Help them. They need a sniper, they need someone to watch their six, they–” He loses his breath. He can feel the darkness waiting to claim him. “Save them.”

“I’m no hero,” he can hear the stranger say, but Clint can’t muster an answer. There’s only as long as he can cling on to consciousness.

He passes out.

* * *

He doesn’t pass away.

He’s honestly surprised when he wakes up, free of pain no less, and he lets himself feel hopeful. At least until he opens his eyes, he thinks. Until he faces reality, whatever it might be.

It’s blissfully quiet. Someone has removed his hearing aids, which must mean someone took care of him when he was unconscious. Belatedly, he realises that he’s no longer lying on a concrete roof, but on a soft mattress. Dare he hope he’s safe? He opens his eyes to check if that’s true.

Bucky, the stranger, is the first thing he sees, and he relaxes immediately. Which, okay, probably isn’t a very healthy reaction to an armed stranger looming over your bed, but Clint doesn’t care. If Bucky is here, it means he’s stayed to demand his payment. Unless… Unless he saved _Clint_ and left the others behind.

Clint feels as if someone squeezed on his heart. Gods, no.

“Natasha?” he asks. It’s probably too loud. Or too quiet, maybe; he can never judge the volume well without his aids, but he has to force the word out; his voice is probably hoarse. Still, he tries to speak again, “Steve?”

“Your friends are safe.”

Not for the first time, Clint can hear the man’s voice even without his aids, and he’s never been happier to hear him speak. He takes in a deep breath of relief.

Only then can he focus on Bucky. He realises it’s the first time he’s seen him when he’s not bleeding to death or otherwise focused on staying alive, and he takes a moment to appreciate that he’s not currently dying.

Then he takes a moment to appreciate Bucky, with all the captivating muscle that his tightly-fitted tactical suit can’t hide, his shadow-like left arm that belies Bucky’s otherwise human appearance, and his very human eyes looking at Clint over the mask. When he catches Bucky’s eye, Clint can’t look away. This time, it’s not because he physically _can’t_ , like he couldn’t when they first met months ago; instead he finds that he doesn’t _want_ to.

Damn. He’s not supposed to find devils attractive.

“Thank you,” he says, before his mind slips into the gutter. And he means it, even though he knows that for Bucky it’s just a deal. An unusual one, judging by the devil’s initial protests, but still just a deal. A job.

Clint looks around for his hearing aids. He might hear Bucky well enough without them, but it’s strange to talk out loud and not hear a sound.

For the first time since Clint woke up, Bucky loses his composed, stoic stance by the side of the bed. His eyes widen and he rushes to the bedside table to hand Clint his aids. It’s fascinating, Clint thinks as he gratefully accepts the devices, slides his feet off the bed, and puts the aids in, how flustered a powerful being like the devil can get.

“Thanks.” Gods, his voice sounds even worse than he imagined. He coughs, but doubts it will help any. Then, because it’s easier to bite the bullet and be in control of when it happens, even if he can’t help the how, “You’ve come to take what’s yours?”

“Yes,” comes an immediate, husky response. But then Bucky shakes his head. “No. Not like that.” He hesitates, but after a moment of consideration and a glance at the closed door he takes off the mask. “How are you feeling?”

“Does that change the taste of a soul?” Clint asks, baffled, but it seems that Bucky gets even _more_ confused at his words.

“What? I don’t want your soul!” he protests.

“Oh.” It figures, Clint thinks. His soul wouldn’t be enough to be an equivalent exchange for the lives of the Avengers. He _knew_ it, he said it himself,so he shouldn’t feel this hurt by the confirmation. He swallows. “So what else can a guy like me do for a devil like you?” He tries for casual but fails miserably.

“Demon,” Bucky corrects with a frown. “And… Fuck. I don’t know what you’re thinking in that stubborn head of yours, but you’re too sad for a person who’s just heard they’ll get to keep their soul.”

“I _know_ it’s shit quality but I don’t really have anything more val–”

“What?!” Bucky interrupts him. He seems angry and Clint can’t keep himself from flinching. “No, that’s not what I–! Fuck. You really think your soul would be any worse than a murderer’s?”

“...No?” Clint hopes it’s the right answer. And it kinda makes sense, doesn’t it? As pathetic as he is, he’s probably not the worst person on the planet.

Bucky half-sighs, half-growls.

“If I needed your soul, I’d have it.” He steps closer to the bed. Closer to Clint; close enough that he has to look up to keep his eyes on Bucky’s face. The demon traces Clint’s cheek with his fingertips. “But you offered me anything I _wanted_.”

Clint gulps. He doesn’t dare break eye contact. He did offer that; whatever the demon desires, Clint won’t be able to refuse. It’s terrifying. But when he looks at Clint with his grey, intense eyes, pupils blown wide, Clint doesn’t think he _wants_ to refuse him anything.

“And what is it that you want?”

His voice is barely a whisper, and when Bucky bites his lip, which makes him look even more _devilishly_ handsome, Clint loses any ability to be articulate and lets out a quiet whimper instead.

“I want another kiss.”

Like a magic spell, the words spur Clint into action. He reaches up, slipping his hand behind Bucky’s neck, and pulls him in.

Their lips meet and it’s just as hot as Clint remembered. It’s not elegant, it’s wet and sloppy, but it does _things_ to Clint. His hand sneaks into Bucky’s hair and the demon lets out an appreciative moan. Clint wants _more_ ; he tugs at the black uniform with his other hand. He takes Bucky by surprise, and the man stumbles forward. Clint falls back on the bed, and only isn’t crushed thanks to the demon’s reflexes. Bucky’s leaning over him now, propped on his elbows. It’s an awkward position, but Clint doesn’t mind as long as Bucky’s mouth is still on his.

He thrusts his hips up to meet Bucky’s, and they both moan in unison. With regret, Clint pulls away, because if Bucky wants the kiss, then Clint wants to give him _more_. That’s something that needs actual words, though, not just incoherent grunts, because consent is important. Then Bucky’s mouth moves to his neck and finds the sensitive spot right behind his ear, and Clint’s thoughts get derailed for a blissful moment. He inhales sharply and–

“Clint! You’re–”

Steve’s voice is like a bucket of cold water over them both. They freeze, staring at each other. They hear Steve clear his throat and Clint doesn’t need to look to know that he’s hovering awkwardly in the doorway, flustered by the scene before his eyes but too concerned for Clint to close the door and give them some privacy.

Clint huffs a laugh, breaking the stalemate. Bucky huffs in a less amused way and rolls to the side, rising to his feet smoothly. He takes the same stance he had when Clint woke up, but it doesn’t look as intimidating anymore, not without his mask and not with his lips delightfully pink from their kiss. It’s pleasing that he wasn’t completely unaffected, enough to balance out the unreasonable shame of being caught in the act by Captain America.

“Hey, Steve,” Clint greets with fake cheer.

Steve frowns, uncertain. His eyes keep flitting between the two of them.

“I’m glad to see you awake, Clint,” he says finally, and despite his hesitation there’s honesty in his words.

“I’m not easy to get rid of,” Clint boasts, rising to his elbows. “Give me some pizza and I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

“As soon as the doctors give you an all-clear,” Steve grins. Then he turns to the demon with a more solemn expression. “Bucky.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitches, almost as if he wants to smile. “Stevie.”

His tone is without any affection, but the nickname speaks of familiarity and Clint is quick to connect the dots.

“Shit, you know each other?”

The two men glance at Clint, then at each other. They have a whole silent conversation that Clint misses before Steve turns back to him.

“We met way back,” he says simply. He clearly hopes Clint won’t pry, and Clint gets it – no one would want to disclose whatever a deal they struck with a demon – but pretending to be oblivious is a spy’s superweapon.

“Ooohhhh,” he nods with fake understanding, “before the war, right?”

Bucky and Steve exchange another long gaze. This time it’s Bucky who speaks up.

“Yes,” he nods. “Before the war.”

His answer is frustrating, but Clint has a feeling that Bucky’s telling the truth, even if there’s something more to it that Clint’s not privy to. Yet. He’ll needle it out of them with time. Or, out of Steve, at least. He doubts he’ll see Bucky soon. He doesn’t plan on almost-dying any time soon. On the other hand, if that means he gets a visit...

“Are you sticking around?”

When Clint realises Steve’s question is directed at Bucky, he turns to the demon so fast he almost gets a whiplash.

“I’m no hero, Stevie.” Bucky looks almost… vulnerable with his shoulders sagged, his head bowed and surprisingly soft eyes.

“You could be?” Thank gods for Steve’s unwavering optimism, because even if Clint doesn’t follow the apparent depth of their exchange, it seems to be working. Bucky is visibly torn, and that prompts Clint to add his two cents.

“Superhero career, 12 out of 10, would recommend.” He sits up to free his hands and give Bucky a thumbs up.

“You just almost died because of this job,” the demon huffs. He doesn’t say ‘idiot,’ but his tone heavily implies it.

“But I didn’t!” Clint protests, indignant.

“I’m sure Clint will be safer with one more pair of eyes looking out for him,” Steve chimes in. He grins mischievously, like he’s figured something out before them and is pleased. Clint wants to be irritated, he really does, but then Bucky growls, sighs, throws his arms up in the air and says the words Clint hasn’t dared hope for.

“Fine! Fine, Stevie, I’ll join your merry band of heroes!”

Clint sits back on the bed, dumbfounded but beaming, and watches Steve step inside the room and pull Bucky into a bear hug. The demon hugs him back easily; it’s clear that there’s more history between them than they shared with him, but that’s okay. If Clint doesn’t manage to outstubborn Steve, he has an idea how he might convince Bucky to spill the secret.

“Hey, Stevie?” Bucky says, not yet letting go. Steve hums in inquiry, and the demon continues, “As much as I appreciate all this,” he pulls away to pat the other man on the shoulder, “you interrupted something.” Steve blinks; Clint perks up, because… “I think I want to get back to it.”

Steve’s eyes widen when the meaning of the words hits him. He takes in Bucky’s devilish grin, and takes a rushed step back. He glances at the door and it’s obvious he wants to leave, but he’s still Captain America, so he looks at Clint first. He seems flustered, uncomfortable, but also worried.

Clint appreciates it, though the worry is misplaced. He’s a big boy and if he needed help– Well. Alright, he wouldn’t ask for it, to be fair. Still, he doesn’t need it now. He sends Cap a bright smile and unsubtly tilts his head towards the door.

“Go. I’m good here.” He glances at Bucky: at the absurdly handsome stranger who saved his life and his friends for a kiss, who’s just joined the Avengers because of him, who could go anywhere in the world and be with whomever he wants, but instead is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world worthy of his attention. Clint has to swallow down the swell of emotions rising in his chest before he adds, “Yeah. I think I’ll be even better.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot that I left unexplored, I know! I'd be more than happy to explore more of this universe if y'all want to know more. Like, what's the deal with Steve knowing Bucky? What happened when Clint was unconscious? What exactly goes on in Bucky's head?
> 
> A sequel could hold all the answers and more, and comments and kudos keep my inspiration going! c;


End file.
